


Caveat Emptor

by meaninglessblah



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Anal Fingering, Ass Play, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Come Marking, Hotdogging, M/M, Misunderstandings, Non-Penetrative Sex, Prostitution, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:42:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26545417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah
Summary: Slade pays for an evening at a Roman brothel, and discovers that he really ought to pay more attention to exactly what he orders.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 111





	Caveat Emptor

**Author's Note:**

> Special shoutout to [Romiress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romiress/) for clarification on the term "hotdogging".

It wasn’t hard to find the brothel. Even an out-of-town traveller like Slade, just passing through between jobs, has no trouble following the artfully crafted signs that point the way to the demure little establishment. It’s a two story house, nestled at the bottom of the town where it slopes into the foothills of Naples, and anyone with half an eye for human nature couldn’t mistake the intermittent but steady stream of patrons ambling through its door. 

It’s less discreet than he’s expecting, but it doesn’t broadcast its wares. There’s an attendant sitting on a stool just inside the door, narrow chin propped up in his palm. He’s drawing patterns on his pale knee where his chiton rides up, but he perks at Slade’s entrance with a beaming smile, sweeping up to his feet. 

He barely reaches Slade’s collarbone, but even from above the boy is pleasing enough to look at. A good indicator of the wares the brothel has to offer if their doorboy is this attractive. Slade can’t place his age, though he’s definitely beyond pubescence. Like he lurched somewhere into adolescence and forgot to stumble his way out with the rest of them. 

There’s a boyish, youthful quality to his features that Slade lingers on as he kicks his boots on the doorframe, letting his eyes adjust to the lowlight, closer to a dusk warmth than a dawn glow. 

He’s familiar with this dance, the unasked and the unspoken, while the boy waits him out patiently and Slade takes his time surveying the decor of the brothel. Like he’s assessing whether it’s worth his patronage, when they both know Slade’s mind was made up before he even crossed the threshold. 

Slade slides him a few coins, standard fare back in the cities, and the boy’s gaze flickers over his palm in a quick count before he beams and clears his throat. Those fingers don’t close, that hand still beckoning, so Slade adds another half. Tries not to let his bitterness show when that seems to satisfy the boy, those fingers sliding into a well hidden pocket in his skirt. 

“Would you like to make a selection, sir?” the attendant asks, and Slade’s single eye flicks up to the murals that line the foot of wall above the frames of the doors. There’s about dozen in all, handpainted in gaudy shades to draw the eye where they dance beneath the flickers of torchlight interspersed along the walls. 

It’s a menu, of sorts. Depictions of sexual acts for the clientele to chose from, for patrons to request of their favourite whores. They vary from the mundane to the eccentric, so Slade lets his gaze skim them once inattentively before settling for a classic position. One that will allow him to recline and enjoy his evening off his feet, without too much strain. 

It’s indulgent, but he’s paying, so Slade figures he ought to get his money’s worth. 

“Excellent selection,” the attendant says with a beaming smile, and beckons him further into the establishment. They pass thick wooden doors that muffle most of the groans and shouts emanating from within. Turning down a corridor and towards an open, unoccupied room, the attendant stands aside and beckons Slade inward, lighting the sconce on the wall by the door. 

One of the larger beds Slade’s seen in the brothels this side of the coast sits adorned with sheets and cushions aplenty. The sweet scent of cinnamon and sandalwood incense lingers in the air, draping the room in the artificial scents as Slade ducks beneath the low door frame. It’s standard fare for brothels in the south of the empire, though Slade can’t say why one would want to associate such scents with whoring or lovemaking. 

“Do you have a preference, sir?” the attendant asks, and Slade hums a note before moving to inspect the bed. 

“Young,” he answers, and adds pointedly, “but not too young. Darker hair. Blue eyes, if you can manage it.” 

“And the personality?” 

He casts a glance over his shoulder, crooking a brow, and the attendant gives him a pealing, accommodating laugh. 

“We do specialise in the whole _experience,_ sir. If there was a particular archetype that suited you-” 

“One who knows their way around a body,” Slade answers bluntly, and the attendant is practiced enough to take it for what it is; a dismissal. 

He beams, nodding briskly. “We can arrange that, sir. Please make yourself comfortable. Your selection will be along shortly.” 

With that he departs back down the hallway. Slade surveys the room, the thick decorative grille over the window, blocking what little light manages to filter through the drapery into neat little geometric patterns. Privacy assured, it seems, which is appreciated. 

There’s nothing illegal about a brothel in Roman cities, but Slade isn’t much of an exhibitionist himself. If he’s paying to enjoy someone, he’d rather their attention not be divided. 

He kicks off his boots without much preamble, shucking the cloak from his shoulders and discarding it across a loveseat in the corner. The bed is soft, and doesn’t give much beneath his weight, which means the owners of this establishment consider it an investment, not a quick cash grab. 

It’s the small things, Slade thinks as he props himself up, unbuckling his belt and setting it aside after a moment’s thought. He’s not here to be romanced; he’d rather skip the unnecessary posturing and get to the point, if he’s permitted. He doesn’t expect it to be outside this brothel’s purview to send him a boy prepared, and provided the lad isn’t entirely hideous, he should have no problem getting straight to business with only a little coaxing. 

No sense in being bashful; Slade strips off the cloying layer of clothing that remains, discarding it with the rest. He paid good money to be here, so Slade sprawls back across the cushions provided, hitching his knees up and letting his legs fall open as he surveys the room. 

He’s not kept waiting for long. Slade’s halfway through debating the merits of teasing his own half-hard cock to fullness when the door opens and a lean form slips through, bare feet soft on the tile. Slade lets the hand that had been idly stroking his stomach slip back to the covers, eyeing the boy with an assessing glance as he presses the wood shut. 

The boy is somewhat of a sight to behold. It makes any question of value disappear from Slade’s mind as he drinks in that lean form, those long, lithe legs begging to wrap around a waistline. 

He’s a beauty, that’s for certain. 

Bright blue eyes sit above a perhaps less than perfect nose, but the asymmetry is more than made up for by the curl of those plush lips. Slade lets his gaze wander down that long throat to the hollow of his collarbones, tracing those broad but tasteful shoulders, athletic arms and delicate wrists. The sort that Slade could wrap up in one of his own palms. 

The boy steps forward then, with barely more than a flourish and the flash of a smile, but even that small motion speaks to his grace and training. He’s nude, beneath the drape of a thin blue chiton, which he reaches up to unpin from his shoulder, setting the brooch aside with barely a misstep, beside Slade’s cloak. 

He watches as those nimble fingers slip the sheer material down to a narrow waist, single eye tracing the soft lines of a well-toned abdomen, before falling to the cradle of his hips. The boy is athletic, a trait that Slade doesn’t usually get to enjoy in the more pampered brothels closer to Rome’s capital. Can’t say he doesn’t appreciate the merchandise, however, as the material is shimmied from the boy’s hips to pool on the tile. 

Slade hums and folds his hands behind his head, letting his gaze track slowly over the curve of that ass, which the boy has no shame in displaying when he bends to collect the material from the tile, far more slowly than is warranted. Slade gets a peek of those firm thighs, and the pucker of a slicked hole. Empty, from what he can see, but definitely prepared at least somewhat, if Slade’s worth his salt. 

The boy straightens after a moment, draping the material next to Slade’s cloak, and he huffs in amusement when the boy’s fingers don’t even stray to his purse. He must be paid well if he’s that faithful to his proprietors; most of the whores Slade’s commissioned wouldn’t hesitate to slip their fingers into pockets or cloaks if they thought they could get away with it. Not that Slade looks particularly forgiving, but he’s known desperation before, so he can understand the allure. 

This one doesn’t even pause before turning for the bed, swaying those hips just the barest amount to draw Slade’s attention to the flex of muscles down his calves. He could picture his fingers looped around those ankles, the bruises he’d leave on the boy’s olive complexion. 

Turning also gives him an unfettered view of the whole of the boy, from the peak of two dark nipples to the faint smattering of hair trailing from his navel to the base of his cock. It’s not particularly sizeable, but boasts a decent length, stirring in the warm torchlight as Slade looks on. 

Maybe Slade’s just biased after all these years of having boy-whores crawl between his sheets. The boy doesn’t hold any of their bashfulness or misplaced pride, however, and Slade’s surprised to discover how refreshing the realisation is. 

A knee crooks, the torchlight playing amber and gold over one of those smooth thighs as he climbs onto the bed. His nails slip into the sheets, palms flattening as he curls his chin upwards to show off that pretty, unblemished neck, and Slade’s not surprised when his mouth whets at the invitation. 

The boy seems to know, because he flashes another one of those brilliant smiles, arching his spine into a delightfully suggestive dip as those painted lids lower to half-mast. 

There’s a small pitcher of oil on the table by the end of the bed, into which the boy dips two of his fingers. From the gleam of gold when he withdraws them, it’s decent quality, glittering beneath the boy’s smile as he smears it artfully over his knuckles with one thumb. Those eyes slide back up to Slade, careful not to lose a single drop as he settles on the sheets. 

He hasn’t been blind to the way the boy’s been admiring Slade while he’s been completing his own assessment. He can feel the drag of those blue eyes over his ribs, his biceps, his scars, before they finally shift to his face and then his lone eye. Still, the boy pauses at the foot of the bed before approaching any further. 

“May I?” 

That’s a voice Slade could get used to. There’s a lilt to it, an underspoken song beneath his timbre, the soft caress of a chorus around the vowels that speaks to the barest accent. There’s nothing particularly exotic about the boy’s features, so Slade has to wonder how much of the accent is natural and how much taught. Regardless, the effect is pleasant, and if the latter, the time well invested. 

Slade just inclines his head the barest degree, settling back to watch the proceedings. Lets the boy crawl between his legs with a soft, alluring smile and a lowering of those pretty blue eyes. He must have a good read on his clients, because Slade is surprised when the boy wastes next to no time drawing his cock into his pretty mouth. Nothing more than a few sensual, open-mouthed kisses up the protruding vein that laces up the side of his stiffening member before the boy is pulling the head between his soft lips. 

He’s expecting something demure, something performative and altogether unnecessary. Something he’d have to wave off and remind the boy that they’re both here to achieve a purpose. 

But the way the boy wraps his hand around the base of Slade’s considerable cock and slides down until the head nudges the back of his throat soothes the premade reprimand in his throat. 

He sucks cock nearly as elegantly as he speaks, Slade notes, relaxing into the sensation with a slow roll of his hips upwards. The boy accommodates, lips closing and throat opening to grip him in all the ways that banish the misery of parting with good money from Slade’s mind. 

He sets a languid, easy rhythm between Slade’s thighs, spine curved to give Slade an uninterrupted view of that ass above the crown of the boy’s dark locks. He’s thankfully familiar enough to remember to use that hand, stroking Slade at first gently, and then just over the edge of firm when Slade moans an encouragement down to him. 

That other hand, coated gold, slips down to roll Slade’s balls in one surprisingly blemished palm. The callouses are faint, but appreciated, as Slade tips his head back into the pillows and sighs bodily. It disappears briefly, but then those talented fingers are back, stroking down the length of his perineum. Slade’s toes curl on the mattress, eyes slipping shut. 

Those two, slicked fingers continue south, tracing once, ever-so-tentatively, around Slade’s rim. He exhales slowly, cracking his lids as one narrow finger nudges into the first knuckle before withdrawing. It’s an odd sensation, not unfamiliar but out of practice, the oil warm where it spills over his rim. 

He’s known some brothels to use the practice, easing their patrons into the mood with some time-proven stimulus. Slade’s not wholly adverse to it, though it’s not his preference, so he allows it for now. _When in Rome,_ he thinks idly, and allows himself a chastising smile. 

The boy catches the spill with his finger, pressing it and the oil back into Slade’s hole with an easy, measured pace. 

He shifts slightly, to improve his angle, his lips parting for the briefest moment to draw in a soft lungful of air. Then he’s sliding back down onto Slade cock, that finger moving so slow inside him that Slade can barely feel it when compared to the velvet of that mouth. 

If the boy’s hole feels half as wonderful as his throat, Slade considers the fare worthwhile. He sets the thought aside, lets himself ruminate in the present, at the slick slide of those lips where they wrap over his cock, flushed red with the pressure. 

He luxuriates, letting the cushions and the mattress take his weight as the boy continues on for a few moments before lifting off. A second finger eases in as the boy’s gaze drags up the ridges of his abdomen, appreciative. For the barest moment, Slade feels absurdly on display, as if he’s the one paid to be fucked here in a whore’s bed. 

He silences the thought by winding his fingers into the boy’s hair, tilting that throat open for his purview as the boy moans softly. 

“You got a name, kid?” Slade asks gruffly, watching that Adam’s apple bob. He could see a gold chain laced tight over that windpipe, a handful of jewels bobbing softly with every swallow. 

The boy doesn’t show the barest discomfort, lashes dipping and eyes sparking as he smiles. “Dick.” 

Slade can’t help but snort, and that smile grows a few inches more. 

“I know,” he replies, and his mouth falls open a little at Slade’s responding grunt when those fingers brush featherlight over his prostate. The boy - _Dick,_ apparently - tilts his wrist to address it with more precision, and Slade tries to remember to relax. The thin curls of pleasure shooting up his spine help. “I guarantee I’ve heard it before.” 

“You certainly picked your profession,” Slade concedes, and this time it’s Dick’s turn to laugh, the sound smothered when he slips back onto Slade’s cock. His other hand pets over the join of Slade’s hip and groin, nails catching in the short hairs there as he loosens his jaw and sinks those tantalising extra inches more. 

It’s been a while since Slade’s been pleasured this way, dual points of contact drawing the heat down into his stomach like a pool of molten iron. It’s a nice perk, but not what he came here for, and Slade’s getting bored of the borderline charade. 

“That’s enough,” he growls, and the boy pulls obediently off his cock with a short nod, fingers withdrawing in tandem. 

He shifts, shuffling further up the bed until his thighs are flush with Slade’s own, and Slade waits him out. No sense in rushing the boy; if he feels he needs the time to prepare himself for Slade’s length and girth, Slade won’t begrudge him it. 

A frown does caress Slade’s brow when those two hands sweep down Slade’s legs from knees to hip, the boy’s gaze hovering just lower than Slade’s swollen cock. He’s just beginning to grow impatient, the demand for the boy to just climb onto Slade’s hips rising to the tip of his tongue, when those gentling fingers trace the arch of Slade’s hipbones and fall back to the boy’s own cock to slick it briskly. 

He flexes forward, hips rolling, and in the moment where the boy’s slicked cockhead touches Slade’s damp hole, realisation strikes like a draft of cold air. 

The boy makes a horrific choked noise when the hollows of Slade’s thighs clamp around his neck, halting his progress. He jerks forward, fumbling to catch himself as his arms snap out to brace. 

Slade waits until he stills and looks up, blue eyes flooded with shocked confusion. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Slade growls. 

“I’m flexible,” Dick wheezes with earnest, “but even I can’t fuck you and suck you at the same time. What gives?” 

Slade stares, feeling like some sort of fool, as the boy blinks up at him, nails tight against the skin of his thigh. Then, it’s like someone kindling a light. 

The boy’s eyes widen. “ _You_ thought-” 

And Slade says, “You _thought_ -” 

There’s a horrific moment of simmering clarity, wherein Slade is distinctly aware of the cooling oil dripping between his cheeks and the twitch of the boy’s cock against his bare thigh. He fumbles for an anchor, unsurprised when he sinks immediately. 

“I’m married,” is what makes it out of Slade’s mouth first, before he can remember that that’s a lie. 

Dick shrugs. “You’d be surprised how many married guys like dick.” His teeth flash in a smile at the pun, and Slade flounders, brows knitting into a scowl. 

“I don’t lay like a woman, boy,” Slade growls, just the barest bit offended, and shifts his weight onto his elbows so he can regain some of the height advantage. “I paid to have you ride my cock, and I don’t intend on changing my selection now.” 

He expects sheepishness to grace the boy’s features, maybe acquiescence. He doesn’t expect that sharp blue gaze to travel the length of his body, considering and debilitatingly confident. 

“I could be convinced otherwise,” Dick replies. 

Slade clamps down on his pride, and wills himself a level head. 

“Turn over, boy,” he growls, ending whatever discussion the boy thinks they may have been having. He paid for one thing in particular, and he intends to get his money’s worth. “Else I’ll put you on your back myself.” 

When Slade shifts, the boy counters, one hand splaying over Slade still-open thighs. He stops, but only to entertain the boy’s hesitation for the briefest while longer. 

“Wait,” Dick says, blue gaze flickering over him as he licks his lips. “I haven’t prepared myself. I didn’t realise you wanted- I didn’t think I’d be servicing you. I’m not ready.” 

Slade delivers him a wholly unimpressed look, which the boy has the gall to roll his eyes at. 

“You’re large,” he tosses out, but shifts up the bed, cock bobbing between his legs as he does so. “I’ll ensure you’re adequately compensated for the loss.” 

The reminder of money does nothing to sweeten Slade’s flippant mood, but the way the boy crawls up his larger frame is somewhat more promising. 

“Let me try…” 

Dick shifts, hooking his legs smoothly over Slade’s torso to straddle his navel. There’s a lean grace to him, a fluid slip of movement in everything he does that Slade finds mesmerising. 

The new position also gives Slade a lovely view of that tight, flexible length of spine where it dips into that swell of an ass. He lifts a palm to settle over the boy’s warm hip, thumb worrying a light bruise into the dimple he finds there as the boy adjusts himself into a kneel. 

Then he braces himself on Slade’s knees, broadening his thighs until Slade’s cock nudges his hole, catching gently on the rim before it slides up the left cheek. The boy tosses him a grin over his shoulder when Slade’s breath catches, eyes trained on that smear of oil down the boy’s olive skin. 

“Will that suit you?” he asks, and Slade tosses him a chastising look. 

But shifts his grip nonetheless to take firm handfuls of that voluptuous ass, angling his cock between the mounds as he manoeuvres them to his satisfaction. They form a nice, warm vice around his cock when Slade pulls the boy down another few crucial inches, until just the head peeks between the large circles. 

“That’ll do,” Slade concedes, and then yanks the boy down to meet his hips. The smack of skin on skin is satisfying, as is the flex of that ass to hold his cock steady, the friction a benediction after all this teasing. 

The boy’s grip shifts, nails parting from their cling on the inside of Slade’s knee to brace on the mattress as he begins to pant and thrust back to meet him. It makes for a delightful view, the blood gathering in a blush on the boy’s cheek when Slade brings a palm down onto it. The boy moans and arches his spine, shoulder blades pinching as he rides Slade’s thighs. 

The muscles that shift and flex down the boy’s back are a performance art, the play of amber torchlight only serving to warm his olive skin to honey. His dark hair sweeps across his shoulders whenever he tosses his head, the peek of a blue eye entrancing whenever he glances back at Slade, cheeks rosy with the exertion. 

Slade keeps a firm hand on his right hip, thumb hooked under the supple flesh of his ass to maintain that tight channel he’s thrusting into. There’s a slickness dripping onto his stomach, a mess of oil and precum sliding down the boy’s crack as Slade nears his climax. His other hand touches the boy’s waist, his spine, his shoulder to drag him down more roughly, more directly. 

“Sir,” the boy groans after a moment, bitten between pants as Slade manhandles his ass cheeks roughly and rockets into a persistent tempo. “May I?” 

It takes Slade a minute to gather what exactly the boy is asking for, and then he grunts an acknowledgement. The boy’s other hand parts from his knee, dipping between his spread legs to tug roughly on his own cock as Slade pistons between his cheeks. 

He makes some exceptional noises then, little cries and huffs of exertion, of pleasure, of need. Slade drinks them all down, the play of tension and release in the boy’s muscles an artform. 

When Slade comes, it’s with his eye trained on the boy’s back. To watch the pleasure of his milky cum splatter over those muscles and drip into those delightful dimples on either side of his spine. To see the ripple travel the length of that back when the boy stills and comes himself, shoulders pinching nearly to the point of touching as he throws his head back. 

Slade stays there, cock cupped between the two firm mounds of flesh, to watch the last thick spurts ooze down over them, thumbs smearing the spend wherever he encounters it. The boy doesn’t fuss over the mess, shivering when Slade’s cock drags over his hole as he pulls away. 

Slade hums and admires the marking as the boy slips his knees back into a more agreeable position, watching where it pools in the small of his back. “You’re a gorgeous canvas to paint.” 

Dick laughs, bright and vibrating with delight as he reaches back to take Slade’s wrist gently. He watches the mischievous sparkle in those blue eyes as the boy sucks one of Slade’s wet fingertips between his lips. He wonders what his spend tastes like on the boy’s tongue, wonders how much more coin he has left in his purse to find out. 

Then he remembers his reimbursement, and slides his thumb deeper over the boy’s sweet tongue, fucking it shallowly into his throat as Dick eyes him curiously. 

“If you give me a handful more minutes,” Slade rumbles, watching those lips intently. “I can find somewhere else to paint you.” 

Dick smirks and nods as Slade withdraws his hand, tossing some of those ebony locks. 

Slade kicks back up the mattress further, avoiding the wet spot between his knees where the boy had released, and smiles at the yelp it earns him when he takes the boy with him. He wraps his huge palms over those gorgeous hips, sliding the boy up his torso until he can fold him over his chest. Give himself a truly uninterrupted view of that gift of an ass and the cum he’s left on it. 

When Dick glances back at him, curious, Slade lathers his tongue over one smear, holding that blue stare as it heats and darkens. Those lashes flutter deliciously when he bites down on the flesh, pulling bright red indents to the surface while the boy moans and withers over him. 

Slade pulls off and licks his lips, thumbs stroking up the heated flesh as he surveys his canvas. “How about you start _encouraging_ me, boy, and we’ll see what I can do for you here, hmm?” 

When the boy’s head dips down to mouth at Slade’s cock without further comment, he smiles and reaches for his belt. Strokes a thumb over the soft, unblemished flesh, pictures the red brushstrokes waiting for him, and sets to work. 

**Author's Note:**

> Extra kudos to the twink who took one look at Slade 'Deathstroke' Wilson and immediately thought "bottom". 
> 
> \-- 
> 
> I don't know if I'm happy with how this turned out, but I decided to cut my losses. Trying to stay on top of commitments but still cut myself slack to write fun things like this. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> [ ](https://linktr.ee/meaninglessblah)


End file.
